I grew up running from demons That wore the same skin as me. They never cared nor tried to Decipher rhymes that promised Childhood dreams,
Instead, they robbed cradles Left in nurseries with doors unlocked.
Don’t try to sing in the dark–
Don’t let horrified gasps escape from velvet lips clenched shut.
We come from a different type Of environment with different Kinds of stories that are never sung With joyful endeavors– We come from musty basements And dirt mixed with tears that Always stains stainless steel– We come from the nightmares Buried beneath the nursery, and Left underneath the skeletons Of your ancestors.
I grew up running from demons With skin the same as mines– I never had enough breath to Recite your rhymes.
The designation of oneself as a writer wields a forte of challenges. That is for certain—for most, the self-identification of one’s gifts, and a proper re-naming is even more difficult to imagine. In places of passivity, we often find ourselves, dismayed with the untruths of our environments, and complacent in our efforts to identify with such behaviors.
Andre Sykes, in his youth, named himself a poet. Growing up in Detroit, he faced his challenges with a literary effort to articulate, understand and dissect the circumstances of his being. For him, poetry was a serious attempt to accept and understand those challenges. He has been published in the Santa Clara Review and is currently working to publish his first chapbook entitled “Black Birds Singing” as we’ll as his first debut book of poetry called “Chlorine Trenches”
Follow his work on Instagram: @sincerelytrulypoetic
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Very evocative
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